


prudence

by hostsushi



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostsushi/pseuds/hostsushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is loyal to Grant Kendrell, if nothing else. Loyal to the small empire he's built himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prudence

**Author's Note:**

> in which asher is possibly an unreliable narrator. mafia au

He stands with the group around the burning barn, watching black smoke curl into a starless sky with tired shoulders and the relief of a job well done. One less weed in his expertly-manicured yard, one less mole in his flawless garden.

The man’s name had been Ricardo Monterro. His friends called him Richie. He worked with Bracket in their accounting branch, mostly bringing in interest payments and pissing away his salary at Reisz’ under the pretense of doing footwork. He didn’t like cats but he’d brought him a whisky, once, his hand lingering across Asher’s fingers for an uncomfortably long time.

Asher had brought him in, so, naturally, when Bracket had been monitoring inconsistencies in their finances, he’d volunteered to take him out.

 _What a waste,_ he thinks, slinging his bag over his shoulder. _He’d had Grant’s jawline._

-

Predictably, the first thing Grant says when he opens the door to find Asher standing at the doorway--covered in soot and sporting a purpling bruise on his lip--is: “Go home, blue eyes.”

It’s two, three in the morning by his estimation, and the office is empty. Asher shuffles minutely at the entrance, part frustration, part restlessness. He is a creature of habit, and the day isn’t over. The bag on his shoulder is heavy with firearms.

After a few seconds of staring into his face, Grant steps aside to let Asher into the room. He makes a beeline to the empty desk at the back, shrugging off his suit jacket with practiced ease and dropping his workload onto scratched oak. 

He hears the door shut and heavy footsteps behind him as he sets to work, putting aside an old rag. He starts disassembling his favorite pistol, hoping that his shoulders are relaxed, making sure to slouch--just so--because Grant Kendrell can smell fear and guilt in the air with the ease of a practiced connoisseur tasting wine.

He is loyal. If nothing else, he is loyal to Grant Kendrell, to the small empire he’s built himself.

“Asher,” he hears.

“Sir,” he says. 

Grant’s elbow brushes his shoulder as he pulls up a seat beside him. He pulls a glock out of the bag and starts to pull it apart after a cursory inspection.

They work in silence for some time, their arms brushing against one another’s. Grant is so close that Asher can smell the cologne on him. He can feel the heat of his thigh beside him; feels minutely aware of the thick gray hair on Grant’s large forearms beside his own, dwarfed, hairless and fine-boned.

“He was your friend, wasn’t he?” Grant asks.

“Someone I knew,” he says. Another test, he thinks. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

Grant is quiet after that.

Asher watches him out of the corner of his eye; Grant’s fingers are thick, but he works fast, handles the small parts of his firearms quickly. 

“You’re good with your hands, sir,” Asher says, eyes down. He’s good at this part, too. A little flattery never hurts, and _maybe Grant Kendrell is not so different from other men after all_ , a malicious little voice in the back of his head says, as Grant chuckles and reaches down to pat his thigh.

And maybe _he_ isn’t so different, either, because his breath catches in his throat. He readjusts himself in his chair and he can feel Grant’s dark eyes boring a hole under the table, his hand still set on Asher’s thigh.

Grant can sense this tension, too, but that is less impressive.

-

He’s against the wall, straddling Grant’s muscular thigh, and he has to stand on the tips of his toes to keep his feet on the ground. 

Grant’s hands dig into his hips, helping Asher grind his crotch against his leg. He hasn’t felt this good in--since he came in his own hand while he lay in Grant’s bed, recovering from a gunshot wound months ago. But the rough friction of his hand can never compare to this; to Grant whispering against his neck, to the discomfort in his slacks as they become too tight, and Grant is unrelenting.

“Just like that, sweet thing,” Grant says as Asher readjusts his hold on his employers shoulders, presses one foot against the wall behind him to steady himself, reaches down to undo the front of Grant’s slacks with one hand. “I’d like to fuck you. Did you know that?”

No, he shakes his head, not too far gone to forget modesty, propriety.

“It’s not like you to lie,” he breathes against Asher’s throat. He can feel the blood pumping in his ears. Shit. Shit. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’ll tell you something you might not know, if you’d like,” he says, lifting Asher effortlessly off his thigh. Asher scrambles to press his hands to the wall behind him. “Do you want to know how I’d do it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d have your hands above your head,” he says. “I’d take care of you. Take care of everything.” He lifts Asher again, but this time it’s to turn around, throw Asher onto the couch where he sits--legs spread, slouched, thighs shaking and eyes blown.

Grant steps between his legs. “Patience,” he says, when Asher reaches forward to touch his dick. Grant’s phone rings, then, and Grant answers it-- _I’m busy, call back in a few minutes_ \--and his ears are almost too blown to hear. He just wants Grant’s cock in his mouth, wants that weight heavy on his tongue.

 _Patience_ , and Grant is kneeling instead, holding Asher’s knees apart.

He screams.


End file.
